Adorn

Contributor: Christi Shin

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Pitter-patter. Pitter-patter. Pitter-patter.

The rain hit the car heavily but that didn’t matter to the two situated in the car. The bass boomed loudly, vibrating the car parked in front of the quiet suburban home community.

Warm hazel eyes met softly with deep emerald orbs and dark caramel fingers traced down the well-built firm peach chest hidden by a white cotton dress shirt. Ebony curly tresses gently tickled ivory skin and large firm hands moved to hold onto the small caramel frame above his chest. The deep R&B beat gently vibrated the seat under the couple as their lips pressed together, both eyes closing as the rhythmic song filled their ear drums.

“You just gotta let my love, let my love, let my love adorn you,” His deep velvet voice sung against her lips, the two smiling against each other, the rain a dull sound in the fading background. The two pressed their lips once more, before a soft laugh escaped the woman who then rested her head against the man’s firm chest looking at her left hand beside her and she let out a sigh as her diamond studded ring glimmered in her eyes.

Applause filled their ears as the two pulled back from a kiss, tear filled hazel eyes meeting the warm emerald orbs, the two being pulled back into the room, having have fled to their own realm, this same song enveloping the young pair. A smooth caramel woman looking at the tan ivory colored male dressed awkwardly in his tuxedo, his muscular build stretching the fabric to it’s limit.

“After all these years you still remember this song?” She let out softly, looking up at the aged face of her husband, whose emerald spheres seemingly peered into her soul. Feeling him move his hands to wrap his arms fully around her, pulling her closer to him she laughed softly.

“I mean it was only our wedding song Liz, how could I forget?” He responded, closing his eyes and humming along to the song. “John, I thought you hated this song. I remember when we were younger and you said-“

“Why do we have to have this crap song in our wedding?” John finished, the two laughing as the song progressed on in the background, fully drowning out the rain. The melody played on, warming the air as the two sung on loudly together. “The same way that the stars adorn the skies yeah, that the same way that my whole world’s in your eyes yeah,” Liz moving up as their eyes connected once more before pressing a kiss onto John’s forehead.

“You always know how to make me feel like a teenager, you know” She whispered against his skin and the elder man chuckled softly feeling his wife run her hands through his short grey hair. “Well we’ll always be teenagers love, we met teenagers, we die teenagers.” He retorted.

Small aged dark caramel fingers ran down to his tan ivory firm palms and interlaced their fingers. John looked at his wife, her apparent wrinkles oblivious to his eyes and the rain started to fill his ears as the song faded into its end. The two for moments just looked on at each other, before John’s eyes filled with tears and he closed them pained as the song started once more.

Opening his emerald eyes the aged man looked up at his car ceiling, the rain hitting the car hard.

Pitter-patter. Pitter-patter. Pitter-patter.

He opened his left palm, as the diamond ring dropped onto the floor of his car and cried out, the song vibrating the car softly. In his right arm that lay over his heart was her obituary, as his phone alarm went off reminding him this midnight was indeed their anniversary.


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Letters From My Father

Contributor: Khadijah Holgate

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“Have you spoken to your father lately Teresa?” Miranda asked her daughter.
“Nope, and I don’t plan on it.” She replied.
“Well, he keeps writing you these letters.” She looked down at the bundle of letters resting on the kitchen counter. “I think you should read at least one of them.” Miranda said with worry.
“Why should I? We haven’t spoken in years and now all of a sudden he wants to write me letters? Who writes letters anymore?”
“Give him a chance Teresa, he’s trying to reconnect with you.”
“Why are you defending him? He broke both of our hearts and I’m just supposed to move on from that?” Teresa questioned with anger. “If you are ready to forgive him, that’s fine but I’m not.”
“He really misses you.”
“Are we done with this conversation?”
“Look, when you forgive someone you aren’t doing it for them, you are doing it for yourself. Think about it.” Miranda explained.
“I have to go, I’m running late.” Teresa said as she grabbed her keys and purse off the counter.
“Okay, can we continue this later?”
“I don’t know but I really have to go.”
“Okay, just keep in mind what I said, only forgive for yourself and when you are ready to do that, you will feel so much better about everything.”
Miranda walked into the living room as Teresa flew for the front door. She stopped just as she wrapped her hand around the golden round knob. A single tear descended from her dark green eyes as she took a deep breath. Teresa turned around and walked back to the kitchen, she stared down at the pile of letters then grabbed one. She opened it and started reading as she left her house.


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Khadijah Holgate is a Creative Writing major studying at Full Sail University in Florida. I'm originally from Boston, MA. I enjoy screenwriting but tried my hand in flash fiction writing and recently discovered a new love for it.
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Endless September Nights

Contributor: William Gray Tait

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I call out into the chaos one more time your name. Yet there will be no answer. There never is anymore. This endless day has turned eternal. It hardly feels real. On so many other evenings we would argue and fight late into the early morning hours and then make love afterwards. It was a ritual of sorts, a dance, a synergy, only we understood. And in those moments we would achieve a perfectly symmetrical relationship of angst and anger, where I would wait until that passion, that fire burning in your veins would swell up and push through, melting away the ice built up in your heart.

But in the end, at least what we had was real. I know your pain was. I told myself we were better for what we went through. It bound us closer. And to be fair, for all the bad times shared, there were just as many moments cherished. Only now can I assign due value to our relationship. Only now in the face of loss can I finally see how much each moment meant in twenty-twenty, crystal, clear clarity.

If tomorrow the sun does rise I will go out again looking for you, my dearest. I will look along with the thousands of other people also looking for love lost in that valley of cold concrete. I will call out again into that void, down each of the streets of Hades as the clouds of smoke billow up from the ground, surrounding me, raining down fiery paper snowflakes and burning ash. I will continue looking through that wall of photographs extending into infinity. I will take comfort in my makeshift brothers and sisters, consoling each other, even if just to alleviate a little bit of the pain for just a moment in time, enough to get me through that next day and into the next.

And I won’t stop looking for you even on that day. Never until I find you, even if only in my dreams. And I will tell you just how much I love you even now, for being able to see me for who I was and accepting that, for loving me for me, and at the end for giving me the space I thought I needed even though doing so tore you apart. I’m so sorry I didn’t say those things the last time we spoke face to face, three weeks ago, when we fought about some stupid, mundane detail, something I have already long forgotten but I will never forget.


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Inspiration Pays A Visit

Contributor: David A Moody

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There is a desk and a chair that do little to cover the nakedness of the room. A body, frail and brittle as the old wallpaper, sits at the desk with bad posture—he often corrects himself and straightens his spine, only to give in to distraction and allow it to curve again. His world is silent and possesses all the charm of a beloved pet in pieces on a roadway. Occasionally, the wind rattles his windows and reminds him of his ghosts too disinterested to haunt him.
Then she arrives. She spills from his mind and leaks down his spine until he can feel her throughout his entire body. Her colors stain his skin a spectral shade of white so dull it glows. She stops at the country store between his heart and ambition to purchase a roadmap of his veins. She wants to see the sights and enjoy the rural fare. She’s a city girl and has always maintained a mocking curiousness toward how the others live.
Her car slows to observe the scene. It begins to rain desperation and loathing, and she has to pull over to fasten the cloth top of her convertible and quickly roll up the manual windows. The muscles of her petite arm burn as the oxygen leaves as a result of her strenuous effort. Damn the charm of antiquity. She sees his daily motions. The alarm clock sounds the urgency of the hour, and he is on his feet and in the shower within moments. She laughs at his body. He is so thin the water from the shower seems to miss his body and roll down the ceramic floor as if in a hurry to escape. The shower is brief, and he stands before an empty closet that holds three identical suits. She shakes her head in disgust at the speed with which he buttons his collar and ties his laces. It is a joyless routine.

Briefcase in hand and foot following foot, he makes his way to the train. She must apply more pressure to the accelerator to keep his pace. She races alongside the train and maneuvers the subterranean tunnels with the greatest of ease. His heart is rolled up in his sleeve like a pack of cigarettes. She jerks the wheel suddenly to avoid an obese man’s cough. She applies the brakes to dodge an invalid’s wheelchair. Everyone is beautiful in her neighborhood. Never has she seen such imperfection. A cat on the prowl, she slinks up the moving stairs; the treads of her tires struggle for traction on the filthy ground. He increases the speed of his walk near the park. The beggar woman there hurls venom and spittle at him. The crust that resides on the corners of her mouth resembles the makeup of a sickening party clown. There are no balloon animals for the children, only hepatitis. He pays her no mind; this is normal. Silence is his weapon. Numbness to the world is commonplace here. She twists a knob by the steering column to activate the windshield’s blades to clear the unpleasantness that obscures her vision. It will be difficult for her to sleep tonight.
Following him from a distance through the heavy glass doors and up the elevator to the seventh floor, she sees him at his desk and places the transmission of her car in park. Carefully she unbuckles her seatbelt and observes. This is the most horrible sight of all. The work is dull and the day moves slowly. Now she understands why he never calls on her anymore. This has become her replacement. A bloated double-breasted monster in a suit slithers from cage to cage and leaves behind it a trail of gelatinous self-importance. By the end of the hour she can take no more. The engine stutters when she holds the turn of the ignition too long, and the car lurches forward with a jolt; her foot is too anxious to press the gas and escape. She will wait for him at home.
Long after it is dark, he comes home. The door cracks open, he steps into the apartment, and places his bag on the desk. He looks at her and smiles. She is naked. Her hair is beautiful and long and covers her shapely breasts and spills over her delicate shoulders. The air is saturated with her intoxicants.
He unbuttons his shirt and sits down at the desk. Tonight will be different. Tonight he will write. Her hands move with his. He presses his fingers to the keys and begins to think and feel. Throughout the night he continues. It pleases her. She rolls about on the bed and gives everything she has to him. Her hand teases between her legs. Fingers make their way to the swollen source of her aching. The carnival balloon swells as the water pistol hits the target. Who will be the winner? Her toes curl, and her limbs threaten to stretch beyond their limit. Her teeth bite her lip until the blood runs down her chin and mixes with the sweat between her breasts. She falls asleep naked, bleeding, and satisfied.
The next morning, he is still at the desk pressing the keys. She dresses quickly and leaves without a word. She will return. He needs her more than ever. But she doesn’t need him. That’s the way she likes it. The smoke curls from her tailpipe as she idles momentarily before accelerating into the soft morning. She feels like getting lost.


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I am in my last twenties and overly fond of cats, mountains, and cane sugar. I'm as clueless as everyone else.
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Hubert Might Go Upstairs But Not To Rome

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

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Tea in the afternoon with his wife of many years is usually peaceful, Hubert thinks before he makes his announcement. Then he says it.

"I'm going upstairs," Hubert tells Ruth as he hoists himself out of his old recliner, "and if I don't ever come back down it's because you want to fly to Rome before we die so we can meet Pope Francis. Fat chance of that happening! You think the pope takes walks in St. Peter's Square?"

"Well, why shouldn't we go," Ruth says. "We may be old but we're still healthy and seeing Rome might be nice. Pope Francis seems like a pretty nice guy."

"Getting old is bad enough," Hubert says, "but why complicate matters with a trip to Rome? We'd have to pull out visas and passports and we'd have TSA agents--total strangers--patting us down in nooks reserved for a doctor or spouse. Besides, Pope Francis might be busy."

"Well, I'd still like to go," Ruth mumbles, none too happy with her husband's lack of enthusiasm. "If I wanted to go to Minnesota and fish for northern pike, you'd be packed, sitting in the car and gunning the motor. Why not do something interesting while we still have time? We'll be dead long enough."

Hubert suddenly has another idea, one he hopes Ruth will buy into.

"Why not let me die first and then you and the ladies from the garden club can go to Rome on that certificate of deposit we let sit in the bank all these years, the one I should have cashed in and invested in that electric car company, Tesla.

"That CD is big enough to take you and five ladies to Rome and back home again. They'd probably like to see Pope Francis as well. Fat chance of that. Unless you want to stand with thousands of others on a Wednesday morning when he speaks from the balcony. Better take binoculars."

Hubert is on a roll now, explaining to Ruth that she and the ladies will have a great time touring gothic churches and eating the finest pasta in the world once he's in the ground looking up but unable to see the sky.

"Once I'm dead, Ruth, you won't have to worry about me being grumpy on the trip. I'll be in the family graveyard stretched out between your Uncle Elmer and your Uncle Vince. Right now those two fine farmers are staring at the sky and bookending the plot your father allotted to me once the poor man realized I was actually going to be his son-in-law."

When Hubert first met Ruth's father many decades ago--fresh off the plane from Chicago, in a suit and tie no less--her father had bounced Hubert over many a country road to show him the plot in the family graveyard reserved in case Ruth married someone eventually. She hadn't married young because as a professional photographer working for National Geographic she had traveled all over the world and preferred taking photos to marrying any of the men she had met. Then she met Hubert in Chicago and decided to settle down.

Taking Hubert home to meet her extended family of farmers, however, had not been easy for either of them. And not easy for her family either. They had hoped Ruth would marry one day, preferably a farmer with lots of acreage, not some editor from a big city and certainly not someone like Hubert who couldn't tell a Holstein cow from a Guernsey.

No matter how much Ruth talked about the delights of a trip to Rome, Hubert still didn't have much interest in going, with or without the rare possibility of meeting Pope Francis.

Hubert liked Pope Francis because the media kept hoping the pope would change some things in the Catholic Church but the things the media hoped he would change no pope could ever change. It would be like saying the color red is blue which can never be true.

Pope Francis, Hubert knew, was an old Jesuit, theologically sound and skilled in handling the media. What's more he had the capacity to rile both conservative and liberal Catholics at the same time. And it was always interesting to see him pop up on the nightly news. Anchors not too well acquainted with matters Catholic would sometimes offer commentary far off the mark.

"Ruth, you and I are the only family left, except for the kids and they're doing fine working in the big city, several big cities, in fact, as your father would have called them. And although the grim reaper isn't waving his scythe and ringing our doorbell yet, I still think you should let me die first and then you and the garden gals can go to Rome. When you get back you can plant sunflowers around my headstone to give the squirrels something to gnaw on in the many hot summers to come."

"Well," Ruth said, "if you had a terminal disease, I might not mind the wait. Why don't we go out for dinner now and we can talk about all this later. I'm hungry."

"Okay," Hubert said, "but I hear the pike are hitting the lures pretty hard up in Minnesota. And I think there's a new bishop in charge. We could go to the cathedral for Mass. Maybe you and the new bishop could have a chat. Some day he might become pope. One of these days an American has to get that job. Can you imagine listening to the News at 10 when that happens."

Ruth agreed to go to a Thai restaurant that evening, a place she had never gone to in the past. It was a tiny place where immigrants from Thailand liked to eat. She knew the food would be too spicy for her but that Hubert would love it.

Eating Thai food was the start of her new campaign to win Hubert over to making that trip to Rome--following a fishing trip to Minnesota, of course. Ruth planned on asking that new bishop to drop a note to Pope Francis to let him know she and Hubert would be coming to visit. She thought it was only right to give him time to adjust his schedule. She was planning on giving him a big batch of her fudge--and a small batch to Hubert to eat on the plane.


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Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.
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The Apology

Contributor: Elliot Richard Dorfman

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In his sleep, Paul McCue heard someone knocking at his front door, but upon wakening, the house was quiet.

Getting off the bed on this cold February morning of his sixtieth birthday, he looked out of the window. The grounds were beginning to be covered with the falling snow. Whenever the weather was like this, he felt aches throughout his back and feet. Well, at least today was Saturday and the accounting firm he worked for was closed.

Quickly dressing, he went into the kitchen of his well-maintained ranch house that was located in the small town of Mayfield, New York. After feeding Scruffy, his little black dog, he made himself two pieces of toast and a pot of coffee. Eating, the thought of his wife leaving him two weeks ago hit him and he sighed.
“It’s been rough trying to adjust my life since Noreen left me for some man she met in the library. How could she do such a thing - especially after 35 years of being married?”

To avoid becoming more depressed, Paul dropped the thought from his mind and took his dog for a walk in the backyard. By now, the snowfall had intensified.

“Wow, if this keeps on, we’ll be getting well over a foot by this evening,” he told Scruffy, who quickly did his “business, anxious to get back inside.

A few minutes later, the phone rang. It was his son, Vick, who lived with his wife and two children across the street.

It’s fortunate to have my son so near during this difficult time of my life, Paul thought.

“Glad I got your birthday cake last night, dad. It may have been difficult going to the bakery today in such a snow storm,”

“Ah, you and your family didn’t have to go to all that trouble,” Paul replied, not wanting to be a bother.

“But we want you to have this birthday party, pop!” Vick answered enthusiastically. “So, what time are you coming here?

“I’ll be at your house about three.”

“Fine that gives us ample time to get everything ready for the party. Be careful when you cross the street, the weather is treacherous.”

“I’m aware of that,” Paul said, appreciating his son’s concern.

After the call, Paul cleaned up in the kitchen, took a shave, straightened up the bedroom, and went down into the den to check if there were any e-mails on the computer.

Since it was his birthday, there were many messages. He felt fortunate to know so many people who cared about him. Too bad his wife was not among them! It took him over half an hour to check the e-mails, and by that time, he was ready for another cup of coffee. Putting on the television, a bulletin flashed on the screen warning people not to travel far since ice and snow had built up on the roads.

At ten to three, Paul crossed the street. It took him nearly three times longer to get to his son’s house because a strong wind kept blowing the snow in his eyes.

His two grandchildren, Victor and Connie, his daughter-in-law, were eagerly waiting for him and ushered him into the dinning room. The room was cheerfully decorated with colorful balloons and a big happy birthday sign. Connie had prepared his favorite dish, Lasagna, which was served before the cake. Around eight in the evening, Paul decided to go home and take Scruffy for his evening walk. Fortunately, the snow had stopped, so it wasn’t difficult to walk his dog. Later that night, Scruffy began growling. Running to the front door, the animal began scratching it with his paws.
“What’s wrong, pal, is there someone out there?” Paul asked, recalling his morning dream, cautiously, grabbing a metal stick that was kept in the closet for defense in case an intruder tried breaking into the house.

“Who is it?” Paul asked.

There was no answer, but a moment later – someone knocked on the door again.
“Who’s there?” he asked much louder.

Still, no one responded.

Cautiously, Paul opened the door. A gust of cold wind blew into his face. Strangely, Scruffy calmed down immediately and sat next to him. A figure shrouded in the darkness moved forward. It was his wife, Noreen. Her face was pale, and she had such a sad expression, that he felt pity for her suddenly.

“It’s cold out there, Noreen. Come in and get warm. We have much to talk about.”

She moaned and shook her head. “I wish I could, Paul - but that’s impossible.”

He could feel his bitterness and anger towards her returning.
“Well, what do you want then?”

“I just came back for a moment to apologize for leaving you. I hurt not just you and the family, but myself as well.”
Paul gloated. “Why the sudden change; did your infatuation with that man fade - or did he get tired of you?”

Tears fell from Noreen’s sunken in eyes.

“What difference does it make now? I was wrong and was going to make it up to you, but fate has other plans for me.”

She moved closer to him and gave him a kiss.

“Happy birthday, my darling,” she said with affection, and vanished.

Paul gasped. Where had she gone? He and Scruffy looked in the street, but it was empty. Had she just been an illusion created by his subconscious longing to have her back?

Unable to sleep after this experience, he put on the television.

“Now for the local news,” a reporter said. “We just found out a moment ago that the woman who died early this morning after her car skidded and overturned on the thruway has been identified as Noreen McCue of Mayfield.”

“Well at least she somehow got the chance to apologize and wish me a happy birthday,” poor Paul whispered.


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Elliot Richard Dorfman taught 31 years in the New York Public School System and was an artistic director an Off-Broadway Repertory Group. Since 1997, over 120 short stories have appeared in 36 publications. He has written 2 novels, the second just published in April. Further information: elrite.webs.com
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Hill Country Hike

Contributor: Misti Rainwater-Lites

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The deer was definitely dead and the car was definitely fucked up but I was alive, somehow, so I walked through the warm breath of the Texas hill country night not thinking of anything, just looking up at the stars and smiling like an idiot, thankful for the random adventure. I didn't have a phone anymore but I also didn't have a boyfriend, hadn't had one in months, so I was free. No one knew where I was or wasn't. No one gave a fuck. I was glad. I walked alongside the two-lane highway. I was maybe five miles from home. I've never been good with numbers. There wasn't any neon or greasy fast food smells assaulting me. I knew there were animals behind the trees. More deer, for example. Maybe the deer were plotting revenge against me for killing one of their own. If I had died instead of the deer it would be less of a tragedy. Sure, if there was a funeral my parents and siblings would show up. Obligations. Most people have at least a few. I wasn't scared of the deer, though. "Bring it on, motherfuckers," I said in case they were listening. I fingered the tiny pink can of pepper spray on my key ring. I was always prepared.


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Misti Rainwater-Lites likes to collaborate with her son on Spider-Man stories. She also enjoys playing with dolls. Her novel Bullshit Rodeo is available at amazon and from Tree Killer Ink.
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A Perfect Day

Contributor: Dan Slaten

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It is a perfect day. The sun is shining, but it’s not too hot. A slight breeze is in the air.

I’m sitting outside a café, and across the table is the girl I love with all my heart. She’s wearing sunglasses, and she looks oh so cool, like a model or a movie star.

I sip my tea as she talks. It’s perfect, just like this day. Sweet, but not too sweet. Cool, but not too cool.

Her voice is like music. She says she doesn’t like the way it sounds, but I like it so much I could listen to her read the phone book. Sometimes she sings, and even though she can barely carry a tune, I love to listen to her. I don’t think she knows this, but how can I tell her? She wouldn’t do it anymore if I told her.

I am going to tell her, I decide.

I’m going to tell her how I feel about her. How could I not on a perfect day like this?

I’m going to tell her how much I love her voice and how I love to hear her sing.

I’m going to tell her how much I love her smile and how seeing it makes me smile too.

I’m going to tell her how her hair looks like it’s made of sunbeams and how every time I see her she makes the day seem brighter.

I’m going to tell her all these things that only someone blind and stupid with love could say with a straight face.

I’m going to tell her because today is a perfect day.

“Oh, guess what,” she says before I can open my mouth. “I met the perfect guy, but I don’t think he likes me.”

Oh, but he does, I think to myself, then realize she isn’t talking about me.

I feel my stomach tighten, and her words blur together in that voice I could listen to for hours on end. That sweet, perfect voice.

I wish that clouds would swoop in, the sky would turn dark, and rain would come down and ruin everything.

But it doesn’t.

It is a perfect day.


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Dan Slaten's writing is fueled by heartbreak and Mountain Dew. "A Perfect Day" was written late one night on hotel stationary.
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A Father's Day Like No Other

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

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Wally Anderson, father of three daughters, was not pleased after reading an email from Shelly, his eldest, a week before Father's Day. He thought she might be coming to visit for the holiday. Instead Shelly told him of her sudden wedding to a man he did not know. A Google search told him that her new husband had two names and that he had married Shelly under the most recent one. However, Google also said his new son-in-law had a good job and apparently leads a respectable life.

The wedding had taken place on an island in the Pacific. The ceremony had been conducted by one of an indigenous chieftain under a gigantic coconut tree. Shelly had studied anthropology in college with an emphasis on indigenous peoples so Wally understood why she might choose to marry in that environment. But the more Wally read about her marriage, the more he felt as if a coconut had fallen on his head.

This was not the first time Shelly had surprised him. She had married her two other husbands on the spur of the moment as well. One was a drunk and the other a gambler. After two marriages of less than a year each, Shelly moved on with life. And now she had a new husband, albeit with two names. The first two husbands, whatever their flaws, had only one name. No confusion in that regard at least.

So after his daughter sent him a photo of the happy couple on their honeymoon, Wally did another Google search and discovered not only did her new husband have two names but photos of him available online revealed that he resembled the late Ted Bundy, a mass murderer and rapist executed some years ago. This prompted Wally to reply to his daughter's email by asking why her new husband had two names, giving full credit to Google for disclosing this information.

"Shelly, as your father, I have a right to know," Wally wrote.

In half an hour, Shelly sent her father a long email with attachments attesting to the character and accomplishments of her husband but without any explanation as to why he had two names. Apparently, he had taken the second name as an adult, tossing out the possibility that he was an orphan adopted by some nice couple in Iowa, the state from which he hailed under the first of his two names. According to Google, he had earned two degrees from Yale under that first name.

In his next email to Shelly, Wally mentioned that he was still confused by the whole situation and needed further clarification.

"Shelly, if your mother was still alive, she would want to know as well," Wally said as imperatively as he could. He didn't want to set Shelly off because she might disappear again as she had when she was fresh out of college. She had spent three years island-hopping in the Pacific, getting to know the terrain and the people. She really enjoyed her time there.

In her reply Shelly said she would "tell Daddy all about it on Father's Day" when she was coming to see him. Her new husband, however, would not be coming with her since he was going to visit his father for the holiday.

"They are very close," Shelly added in a postscript.

Wally replied right away, his fingers flying across the keyboard.

"Which father might that be--and which name does he go by? And does he live in Iowa or is he somewhere else? A concerned father wants to know."

Shelly wrote back and bubbled that she would tell him everything on Father's Day and bring him some fresh coconuts to boot.

Wally realized that all he could do was wait and see. So he wrote back and said that he'd wait for Father's Day so she could tell him everything in person.

Shelly replied right away and said that if it's a boy, they might name him Walter.

It was obvious to Wally now that this would be a Father's Day like no other.


- - -
Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.
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Toes

Contributor: Eric Suhem

- -
“They are so disturbing,” Lottie said to Sol when they were both 14 years old, rejecting his footsie advances, and staring at his toes, which she found strangely misshapen. It was a comment that would stick with Sol for years, causing him to develop a complex about his feet, for which he would compensate via career achievement as a podiatrist.

After years of study, Sol received numerous degrees related to the foot, and started a successful practice. To advertise, he had a large electric toe sign set up near the medical building in which he worked. After a typical day seeing patients work he’d sit alone in his office to do research, but instead dwelled upon the girl from his childhood who’d said his toes were disturbing, as the electric toe blinked on and off, casting a reddish light.

Lottie, meanwhile, embarked on a career as a professional bowler, though for her it was a lonely life, driving down bleak deserted highways to various tournaments, staying at desolate motels, often with no companionship except her bowling ball. When feeling extremely lonesome, she would set the bowling ball on top of the television set to keep her company, its finger holes resembling eyes, and its thumb hole looking like a little mouth. Lottie fought through the isolation and worked her way up through the rankings, succeeding on grit and moxie.

“Your toes went over the line, a foul!” screamed Lottie’s competitor Lois during a crucial tenth frame roll. An argument ensued, and Lois angrily dropped a bowling ball on Lottie’s foot, before stalking out of the bowling center to the parking lot. Showing steely resolve, Lottie went on to win the tournament, but woke up the next morning with swollen and disfigured toes. The swelling eventually went down, but her toes remained permanently twisted, reminding her of Sol, that boy from her past.

Lottie began a comeback on the women's bowling circuit, rolling in small-money tournaments, though she was unable to find bowling shoes that fit her bent toes. Even custom-made bowling slippers did not wrap comfortably around the contours of her feet. “I'm not going to let this stop me,” said Lottie determinedly, clawing her way back to the top of the circuit, earning a finalist spot in the national championships in Las Vegas.

In Nevada for a podiatrist convention, Sol was channel-surfing in a hotel room as his crooked toes wiggled comfortably on a vinyl Ottoman. He tuned in to a bowling tournament, and was amazed to see Lottie, rolling strike after strike. His heartbeat quickened when he learned that the bowling tournament was near the hotel.

The next day, Sol sat in a lounge chair by the hotel pool, staring at his crooked toes after giving the keynote address at the convention. He was recognized worldwide as a leading figure in the podiatric world, but as he sipped his Mai-Tai, batting the little paper umbrella back and forth in a carved-out coconut, he could only think about how to find Lottie. He watched the lounge chairs by the pool fill up with other conventioneers, and pro bowlers.

Lottie wandered over to the hotel pool after a strenuous practice session, relieved that her toes were no longer confined in the bowling shoes. She sat on the lounge chair and spread her tarsal digits freely in the summer air, slowly noticing the foot in the lounge chair next to hers, a foot with the unforgettably contorted toes of Sol. He was having a flirtatious conversation with Lottie’s bowling nemesis Lois, ensconced on an adjacent lounge chair. Under the sun’s glistening rays, Lottie rotated her foot to the left and made toe contact with Sol. When their feet merged a lightning bolt sensation burst through their bodies, the toe friction transporting them into the cosmos. Lois recognized their bond, and slinked off scowlingly to the tropical-themed bar.

Sitting by the fire, near his podiatry certificates and her bowling trophies, a half century after their poolside encounter, Sol said, “They’re looking a bit long, it’s time for your trimming.” Lottie smiled as Sol wielded the toenail clippers.


- - -
Eric Suhem lives in the orange hallway (www.orangehallway.com)
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Hideout

Contributor: Elizabeth Brown

- -
Gula said she was a ghost. It was the last two weeks of summer.
“So how did you die?” I asked. We were sitting under a willow tree in the pasture, making a list of supplies we needed for our hideout. The sun blazed like a scourge.
“I climbed out the window.”
“And then what?” I asked.
“I crawled over to the edge and slipped off.”
“What did it feel like?”
“It was like floating.”
“So are you an angel now?”
“I can’t say. Not allowed.”
We shook our heads, chuckled. The sun moved behind a cloud. A crow cawed in the distance. Katydids chirped. A mother called a child home. We lived on Sigourney Drive, all three of us—Gula, Trey and me. We clung to each other like timid mice, convinced terrorists were invading soon. Trey was the only boy. But we never thought about that. He seemed like one of us, until he pulled out his penis. “Hey, my dad said men can do it this way.”
We were eleven-years old, on the cusp of puberty. We spent our remaining days of summer in the pasture behind our homes, up a hill, under the barbed wire fence, a mile or so from Peterson’s Farm, and Ronald Peterson, the senile old man who once shot a trespasser. That was scary enough, but innocuous. The war in the Middle East, on the other hand, with blood and gore, real images we glimpsed on the news, was something else.
The terrorists were coming. We were building a hideout. “It’s only a matter of time,” Gula said. She was the deciding factor. Gula was born in Afghanistan and lost her parents and most of her relatives there. She was the tallest and skinniest of us. She barely ate. She said she was named after Sharbat Gula, a famous girl who had her photograph on National Geographic. “We have the same eyes, and her parents were murdered like mine.”
“That’s sad,” I said, unsure of how to respond.
“That’s why I don’t eat much. I think I should honor her. She never had food."
"Can you eat chocolate at least?" I asked. Gula shrugged her shoulders and smiled. She rarely showed her teeth and always wore a scarf she called a hijab. It was pale green and matched the color of her eyes.
“Why don’t you wear a different color?” Trey asked one day. I wanted to hit him.
“Like what?”
“Maybe yellow?”
Gula smiled. She was so forgiving that way. And a few days later, she wore yellow. But on the way to our hideout, we got attacked by a swarm of bees. Gula was stung four times—she was the only one that couldn’t run fast enough. We didn’t wait for her. I kept thinking she was a clumsy American, not at all like Sharbat Gula. I never told her that though. It was Trey’s fault. He kept poking at a bee hive. But, Gula blamed the yellow hijab, and went back to the green.
The hideout was in the beginning stages. We found an upturned tree to use for the base and started a pile of downed limps and brush for the wall. It was the last day we were together. Gula had stuffed a tarp and some twine in her backpack and Trey brought his pocket knife. He kept taking it out of his pocket and opening it.
“You’re not going to cut anything with that,” I said to him, smugly.
“You know how sharp this is?” He took it out again. “See the hair on my arm?” He grazed his arm with the blade. “Look…look how clean.”
That’s when we heard a loud popping.
“The terrorists,” Gula said.
“It could be fireworks,” I offered.
“No, I know," said Gula. "I’ve heard it before.”
“You’re an American,” I said.
“It’s in my subconscious mind. I know by instinct. I know the sounds of enemy fire.”
“Do you think they’re here?” I asked. I felt my heart in my chest. Even though I knew it was all a game, and I was placating Gula, some part of me imagined it could be real.
“Not the terrorists, you idiots. But maybe that crazy old man,” Trey suggested.
“Either way, we need to hide.” My eyes darted, nervously. The hideout wasn’t built. I considered climbing a tree.
“I’ll stay here. I’m dead already. Ghosts can’t die,” Gula said. She wasn’t laughing.
The popping sounds grew louder.
“There’s no time.” Gula started gesturing madly as if some unseen force was about to rain down on us. Her hijab was slipping from her head. She struggled to adjust it; her hands shook—too much so for a ghost, I decided. But, I trusted her. She had Afghan blood. She was born there, like she said, born into strife, war, so maybe she had a stronger sense about it all.
“Let’s go!” I yelled.
It was dusk. The air was heavy, a fever of heat bore down on us. We ran. At one point, I looked back and saw Gula; she was a smudge of green. She was not even trying. Did she actually think she was dead?
“Gula, come on!” I heard Trey yell, saw the vein bulging on his neck. I noticed he was crying. We were a mile or so from Sigourney Drive, just a bit more and we’d be safe. The popping didn’t let up.
I envisioned enemy soldiers behind us, closing in, clad in camouflage, guns strapped, pointed, flushed faces, boots stained with blood and dung. I knew then, our hideout was ridiculous and that nowhere was safe. I looked back before crawling under the barbed wire. Gula was gone.
When I finally did see Gula, a few weeks later, we passed in the hallway of Saint Ives Middle School. She was wearing a purple hijab. I smiled at her. She cast her eyes downward and walked right past me, as if I were the enemy.


- - -
Elizabeth Brown has short fiction appearing or forthcoming in Linguistic Erosion, Barleby Snopes, The Milo Review, Sleet, Apocrypha and Abstractions, among others. In addition to writing short stories, she is currently seeking representation for her novel, a psychological thriller. This story originally appeared in Pithead Chapel.
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The Forest

Contributor: Reese Scott

- -
At night the sermons would begin. As I lay in bed and listened, I was unable to locate where the sermons were coming from. I did know they were close. One night I went outside to see if I could find out.

I followed the voices through the back gates of homes, made sure the dogs didn’t start barking to wake up anyone, until finally a few miles away I came to a place in the forest that was much darker. The Moon was out and it gave some light to the darkness everywhere else. But here it was as though the Moon’s light was not allowed.

As I walked closer, I could see shapes of bodies through the trees. I didn’t feel nervous but at the same time I didn’t feel safe. As I crouched below a large bush I could barely make out the figures. There was a fire and most of the people were just sitting around drinking tea and cooking marshmallows.

“I guess this isn’t a sermon.”

As I watched I began to recognize some of the people. One looked like an old school teacher. Another looked like the mayor. Others looked familiar, but I couldn’t place them.

Everyone around the fire became quiet. They were not moving now. Instead all their heads were lowered as if they were avoiding looking at someone. I was so focused on the people around the fire I forgot to pay attention to anything else. When I turned around I was face to face, not with a beautiful woman or a scary looking man, but just a dog. A very small dog. I knew what a small dog does and doesn’t do. So I took my belt and tied it around the little dog’s mouth. I have never trusted dogs. For some reason they remind me of people.

After I had taken care of the dog, I started to wonder why I was even here and what I thought I was supposed to do. I could hear people around the fire talking again. They were telling jokes. Going from one person to the next. Each joke was a knock-knock joke that did not make sense. But the less sense they made, the more they laughed. Then the fire began to burn brighter and the flames were now reaching high into the air.

An elderly lady suddenly appeared. She was with her daughter and what looked like her daughter’s son. The young son took the elderly woman’s hand as they walked toward the fire.
When they were close, the elderly lady let go of his hand. She looked him in the eye.
“Don’t believe what anybody says.”

Then I watched the elderly lady walk slowly into the fire. She did not scream. She did not cry. It was almost as though she had done this before. But I knew this wasn’t possible. Then the elderly lady was hard to see because of the flames. I thought I saw a smile.

After it was over, I went home and went to bed. I knew I couldn’t leave. I knew I didn’t want to leave. But I knew something was wrong. I just wished I knew what it was.

After the fire, I packed up a small suitcase and planned to leave sometime in the middle of the night. When I was leaving I heard another sermon. This time I was not intimated. If anything I was furious. I walked right through the bushes until I was in front of the people sitting by the fire. Everyone turned and looked at me. I had no idea what they were thinking, but obviously it wasn’t good.

A man came over to me. The man must have been the mayor or leader of the group. As he came up to me I became more and more nervous. The man was now in front of me. I didn’t know who the man was, but he asked, “So where’s your dad?”
“I don’t know.”
“When’s the last time you saw him?”
“I can’t remember. Years.”
“Would you like to see him if you could?”
“Yes.”
“Okay wait a few minutes.”

The man came back later and I realized something. This guy was my father. I don’t know how I knew this but I knew it was true. My father walked toward the fire. His expression was one of determination.

My father turned to me.
“You’ll get to see Mom.”
“I don’t want to see Mom.”
“She wants to see you.”
“Do you want to see her?”
“I already have. Dozens of times.”
“Okay fine. What do I need to do?”
“Nothing really. Just go by the fire and I’ll take care of the rest.”

As I looked I saw a child walk into the fire. The child looked neither nervous or angry and his screams sounded like screams of joy.

I trusted my father. Even though we were not close. I knew my father knew more than I did.

Then something went blank. Suddenly my thoughts and my memory seemed to fold into each other. It felt like I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I knew I could walk away. But I didn’t. It felt wrong for some reason. So I followed my father, holding his hand. Where he took me made no difference. Holding my father’s hand was more important. My father walked me to the fire and kissed me on the lips. It was the first time I had heard him say goodbye.


- - -
Reese Scott is from New York. He is currently residing in California.
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The Rubble

Contributor: Victoria Elizabeth

- -
He worked 70, 80 hours per week, but never missed a track meet. He grew a beard overnight, yet he was the one who braided my hair every morning. He held me when I cried, succumbed to my puppy eyes, and believed the lies I would weave about unfinished homework and missed curfews.

I knew if my mother said no, my father would say yes.

She always said no. He always said yes. Yes.

Affirmation was our language, a shared secret. He was my mountain, the foundation on which I built my childhood.

Under my father’s approval, I casually drank my first beer as a teenager. With my father’s encouragement, I spent my afternoons in a shithole bar playing pool until the smoke burned my eyes and my hair smelled like ash. With my father’s unspoken consent, I learned to hate my mother.

An affair turned serious when an unplanned pregnancy declared my existence. My mother’s ultimatum: leave one family to start another. A sacrifice or his attempt at a second chance, I’d never know. He told me he loved his daughters all the same.

I knew he loved me more.

The cancer started in his kidneys, metastasized to his lungs before the results could return for my donor test. A perfect match. We always knew we were the same person occupying two bodies, but the cancer was too fast.

Strong, indestructible, my father couldn’t die. The man who carried me off the softball field when I sprained my ankle couldn’t be the same skeleton looking up at me from those crisp, white sheets. Shallow breaths, glazed eyes; the rubble of a broken body and a man unprepared to die.

A mother I hadn’t talked to in years suddenly knew the right words to say. A woman gave an approval I’d long forgotten I needed. She wasn’t him, but she was there – concrete and whole – when my foundation crumbled at its core. A god fell so she could fulfill her role.

We’ve never shared a beer, but she saw me walk down the aisle through blurred eyes. I never felt the victory of beating her at billiards, but she cheered when I gave the speech at my college graduation.

She wasn’t him, but she was there – and that was what I needed all along.


- - -
Victoria Elizabeth Ann is a lifetime student of the arts, literature, and life as a whole. She completed her BFA in Creative Writing in October 2013 and is a current MLS student at Rollins College in Winter Park, Fl.
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Beacon

Contributor: Egbert Starr

- -
Some of the losers looked around and saw the other losers. They had all lost. And they had all lost, and been losing for a long time. Once, for sure, they had all begun as all begin: like small, hairless, practically featherless birds begin cracked open in their springtime shells, practically pretty much the same. Now some had beards, and others had hand-me-up-skirts that girls half their age could wear with aplomb. But these? Like Mennonites that were not Mennonites, like young girls who were old. They continued to plug into electrical sockets where the electricity was free, and, like me, kept spending down the principal of their meager inheritances until they were dead or there was nothing left. Awful things were overheard: glassy-eyed conversation between two look-alike chaps over "Garamond" or something about a garbled font name. The women, who'd whelped a couple of kids along the way, could pull off a pretty convincing simulacrum of middle-class play-date talk with another female on the other end of some 4G cell phone elsewhere, arranging their days like bankers who'd made fortunes and stashed the loot on-island. Some kid making a macchiato was spouting yesterday's nonsense about Godwin's law while doping the top of my coffee with a smudgy swastika impression. The five-spot I gave him I didn't bother with looking at the change. Somewhere in the miasma, you could hear what must have been a reference to Pete. From Beacon, right? Who must have been Seeger, right? And Bob, who must have been, well, I'm not saying. The only folks who'd had a thing going for them were a couple of young ladies making public talk too loud for public talk over a mosaic coffee table that had no picture in it at all in its broken colored chips about 403K's that'd be full of money in three and a half decades when they were fat and divorced and done being mediocre in their teaching jobs, as from the general sound of their discourse, I could tell in a beat they both were going to be for thirty-five years. "Hey," I heard my friend go. "Hey." She pointed with her head to get out of the coffee shop, and I didn't feel like killing myself anymore.


- - -
At a certain point, one's anonymity-obscurity, that second greatest of all gifts, turns out to have served its purpose. Not doing so betokens narcissism and vanity. And so, I think it's time to let go of one's pretty darlings.
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Indigo Rose

Contributor: Shannon Yule

- -
The skies were grey, the sea was rough, all in all it was perfect weather. Perfect weather for John McCook, captain of a small fishing boat named Indigo Rose. He was out looking for his latest catch, Tuna; he wasn’t after anything record breaking, just something big enough to sell to support himself. He wasn’t going to lie to himself though, he was out for more than just fishing; he was out because the ocean was the only place that he felt at home. He had never really felt right ever since his wife had died three years ago.

It was a normal day, just like any other, he was home from fishing, and his wife was in the kitchen making dinner. He had just kicked back and turned the television on when he heard a huge crash from the kitchen. He ran into the kitchen and found his wife unconscious and on the floor. He shook her and called her name, but she was already gone.

She had died of heart failure, it was a disorder that she’d had since birth and it was just a random act of fate. That was the real reason he was out fishing, because home was too painful of a place to be.

The sky started getting darker, and the sea started getting choppier, causing the boat to pitch.

“Just my luck” he sighed, irritated as he began to pack his equipment up.

He went into his cabin, starting the engine, well, attempting to. No matter how much he tried, the engine was dead. Dead like his wife, and, if the storm kept getting worse, possibly dead like him.

#

The minutes had melted into hours, the ship violently pitching in storm; it was a miracle it wasn’t at the bottom of the sea by now. He clung to the nearest thing that he could, the safety vest hanging on the wall, his wife’s vest that she used to wear all the time.

Suddenly, light broke through the clouds and shone through the windows of the cabin, the sea calmed to a gentle rolling pitch.

He stepped out onto the deck, the warm sun hitting his skin, feeling the crisp air of the sea. It was so calm. But he could see that he was merely in the eye of the storm, and it was a small one at that. A terrifying wall of storms surrounded this small piece of peacefulness, and they were quickly approaching his small vessel.

He looked up into the sky, at the sun and smiled at the warmth on his skin. He could feel his wife in the sun’s warmth; see her in its glow. He was tired of missing her, tired of feeling the pain of separation.

He wanted to be with her again.

Determined, he returned to his cabin, steering the ship towards the dark wall ahead of him. He knew what he was doing was suicidal, and that was the plan.

As he plunged headfirst into the roaring winds of the hurricane he knew that his ship, his body, would both end up on the ocean floor, but his spirit would be with his wife again. This time, however, it would be for good.


- - -
Shannon Bower-Yule is currently a student at Full Sail University working on her Masters in Creative Writing for Entertainment.
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Summer Afternoon

Contributor: Reese Scott

- -
While his mother went next door, he was in charge of watching his little sister in the bath. She was maybe over a year now. He wasn’t sure. He had a small piece of paper by his knee. It was a short list of what he was to do and not to do.

1. If she starts to cry or if anything happens just call the neighbors. The number is on the bottom of the page.

2. If she starts to get upset or if anything out of the ordinary happens call the number on the bottom of the page.

3. If you feel nervous call the number on the bottom of the page.

He sat on the floor. He put his hand in the bath. The water felt nice. His sister was staring down at her feet. She looked up at him and smiled. The smile looked like any other smile. He imagined he could hear other little feet running up and down the stairs, running through the kitchen, out the door, then back in again. He looked at his sister. She looked dumb.

He continued reading the list his mother had given him.

4. If she starts to cough call the number on the bottom of the page.

5. Remember if anything goes wrong, I mean anything, call the number on the bottom of the page.

He looked at his sister in the bath. She was a baby. But it wasn’t his baby. It wasn’t his sister. At least not to him. To him she was just something. But something that bothered him. He didn’t know why he hated her. He didn’t know why he didn’t like holding her. Maybe it was because his mother wouldn’t let him. Or maybe his mother knew he didn’t want to. But he knew that wasn’t true. Since his sister had showed up he felt like he didn’t know his mom anymore.

It was hard enough watching her walk around month after month talking to her pregnant stomach. Telling her how much she loved her. How special she was. How happy she was going to be. How everything will be wonderful. During this period, he couldn’t remember his mother saying very much to him. The only thing he knew was he now walked himself to school and had to be quiet all the time. They no longer had dinner together. She no longer read him stories when he went to bed. When he couldn’t sleep he couldn’t go into her room. When he had bad dreams he no longer had somewhere to go to help him hide.

As his mother’s stomach grew so did everything else. The food was either cold when it was supposed to be hot or hot when it was supposed to be cold. There were no more cartoons allowed on the television and they celebrated his birthday a day late because his mother wasn’t feeling well.

He felt warm. Like he was getting a fever. He took some water from the bath and put it on his head. His sister began to cry. Some of the water must have gotten in her eye or she was probably crying because he took some of her water. He didn’t like her. He didn’t like her at all. She continued crying. He put his hand in the bath and took some more water and put it on his head. She began to cry more. He took more water until his clothes were now wet. His sister kept crying. So he took more water until there was hardly any water left.

He looked at his sister. He looked at the note. None of it made sense. He turned the water back on so his mother wouldn’t notice. He watched the water fill up the tub until it was over his sister’s head. He counted the bubbles as they floated to the top of the water. He liked counting.


- - -
Reese Scott was born in New York. He is currently living in California.
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